


Worthy of Survival

by PlasticRamen



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Author is in way over her head, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliques and Infighting, Competing for Survival, DBD Novelization, Explicit Language, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Gallows Humor, Hope vs. Despair, Lore-expansion, Love Triangles, Mostly lore-compliant, Reward and Punishment, Sexual Content, The Entity's rules are more guidelines than actual rules, and wine, send coffee, winners and losers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasticRamen/pseuds/PlasticRamen
Summary: Fate shattered her life, but she managed to pick up the pieces. It might not have been a life worth bragging about, but it was still her own. Then the gray, erasing fog came again, marooning her in a land of new nightmares, leaving her with nothing. But things are different this time around.The moment she stumbles upon a dying campfire, she realizes two things: She was never alone, and this is always where she was meant to be.Now, if she can just keep them alive long enough to rebuild what they have all lost...--(My attempt at a DBD novel centered around Cheryl and others. I will be adding more relationships and maybe other series as I go.)
Relationships: Cheryl Mason/Pyramid Head, Cheryl Mason/Quentin Smith, Claudette Morel/Jake Park, Dwight Fairfield/Meg Thomas, Joey & Julie & Frank Morrison & Susie, More TBD - Relationship
Comments: 23
Kudos: 31





	1. Ordinary Vanity

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: This story begins with Cheryl, aka Heather, a few years after the events of Silent Hill 3. I based her new life on the descriptions from her in-game skins. The rest I sort of made up. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Regarding lore, I'll try to be compliant, but for storytelling's sake, I'm also taking a few creative liberties. Feel free to let me know how I'm doing so far with some kudos or a comment. <3 Thanks, and hope you enjoy!

“The door that wakes in darkness, opening into nightmares.” - _Silent Hill 2_

“Through the darkness of future's past  
The magician longs to see.  
One chants out between two worlds...

"Fire...walk with me."

-Mike’s Monologue, _Twin Peaks_

* * *

The day Cheryl Mason—cashier, aspiring paranormal magician—performed her final disappearing act was an ordinary Thursday in late November.

Inside the breakroom of _Wally’s Garden of Eden,_ a health food store, she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her fellow coworkers. It was obvious who was day shift, like herself, and who was night shift based on which person held fresh coffee, looking impatient, and which was yawning, droopy-eyed, struggling to digest the manager’s sugar-coated pep talk.

‘Indoctrination speech’ as her friend, Carli Parekh, put it. An artist with a pixie-cut the color and texture of wet ink, whose final height amounted to a whopping 5’1”, she somehow always managed to wear something black under her work uniform. Carli was currently nodding off and relying on her taller, blonder friend for support.

 _It should be a federal crime to be here after sundown,_ Cheryl mused impatiently, folding her arms across her pink t-shirt. Out the window, a blazing forge of a sunset was melting on the horizon, intersected by the bars of tree trunks, exactly like a black and red barcode. 

_Oh, God. I’m thinking in grocery metaphors now._

She wasn’t sure which was worse: her old nightmares about a town named Silent Hill, or the constant scanner dinging and supermarket soundtrack on repeat in her dreams.

“And so,” Wallace Hornwood, manager and owner of _Wally’s Eden_ ( _Willy’s_ , as she and Carli had renamed it) spoke blaringly over the group of 40-ish staff members. He had no real reason to, other than the love of hearing his own voice. The break room was as cramped as teeth in a shark’s skull.

“When our customers walk through those doors, I want them to feel _transported_. Like they’ve died and gone to produce heaven.”

Next to her, Carli muttered down at her pink Doc Martens, “If I have to endure another second of this, I might die, too.”

Cheryl nodded in agreement, but the joke didn’t land. For once she didn’t share Parekh’s dark humor. _Polaris,_ the youth crisis center she dedicated most evenings to, was always overrun around the holidays. Increased domestic disturbances and the lack of school days meant more displaced youths, who were counting on her to be their last line of defense in a crazy, uncaring world.

Instead, she was forced to stock shelves and participate in her boss’s unusual torture schemes of drills and scenarios—as if people actually went to the fucking grocery store on Black Friday. She’d come awfully close to bursting into his office and expressing her doubts, caged-monkey style. But her landlady had made it abundantly clear that if she didn’t cough up the rent, plus a percentage of what she owed in back payments, she would sick her three enormous dogs on her.

If there was one thing Cheryl hated, it was feral hounds. And homelessness.

Tomorrow’s coveted holiday shift was the perfect chance to earn extra cash, but she had to participate in the night’s idiocies to secure herself a register (one of her boss’s many unusual off-the-books rules, but they were an ‘alternative’ store and the Hornwoods could command their peasants however they pleased).

Now, thinking of her empty desk at the crisis center, the phone ringing constantly, voicemails drifting into outer space, she was already starting to regret her decision.

“Their experience must be transcendental,” Wally dictated, spreading his arms in preacher fashion. The guy should have been running a compound instead of pushing pesticide-free broccoli on the masses. He even had the Jesus beard and man-bun for it.

“Everything in its rightful place. Battle-hardened employees standing by. Ready for a challenge at a moment’s notice. Our customers return because they expect two things: unbeatable service, and a superior product they won’t find at those mediocre chain stores. So when they storm our gates at precisely four a.m. tomorrow, we will be _ready for whatever they can throw at us_.”

“Gag me with a rake,” Carli groaned.

Cheryl’s lip might have twitched at that, but her gaze was fixed out the window. The fiery sunset was captured by the scattered raindrops on the window, in rounded prisms that ran in molten lines down the glass.

She frowned. The weatherman hadn’t called for rain tonight. It wouldn’t be good for the kids that decided to run away, or those who had been forced into the streets, as she had once been, hungry, suffering from PTSD, at the mercy of whatever sickos lurked under the bridges or on the midnight subway station.

Fuck, but the holidays put her in a bad mood. Something about the over-consumption and greed didn’t sit well.

“Psst, hey.” Carli elbowed her in the vest. “You okay?”

She nodded halfheartedly. Their manager’s boisterous calls for grocer-Armageddon were muted to cricket peeps. A distinct ringing filled her ears the longer she stared out the window. The sunset stretched into a thin gold razor-wire.

Her heart had never felt so divided. Someone, somewhere, needed her help, and she was wasting her time here, as she had been for the past two years, ever since her father-

“Yo,” Carli whispered. “Heads up.”

Cheryl blinked and looked away from the window. Wally Hornwood’s ice-blue aviators glinted in their direction.

“We’re a _team_ and we work _together_ ,” he boomed. “ _That’s_ how we do things, whether it’s the holidays or a regular Monday. Teamwork, diligence, responsibility.”

“And the finest minimum wage the state can offer,” Carli sneered.

The groan escaped Cheryl’s throat before she could swallow it.

“Something wrong, you two?” Wally’s assistant manager, Wally Junior, spoke out.

A taller, ganglier, beardless clone of his bespectacled sire, Wally Junior had once asked Carli out for drinks at _Applebee’s_ , and Carli had reacted with her usual corrosive sarcasm. It had taken a lot of crisis-center soothing on Cheryl’s end to convince Junior not to demand that his daddy fire her friend. Her _only_ friend.

Then the idiot had gone and asked Carli out again, that time suggesting _Chili's_. Carli's vitriol had been legendary that day. When a flustered, burned Junior had tried to storm up to his daddy’s lair, Cheryl’s vision had steeped in red. She’d grabbed him by the vest and held a plastic butter knife to his jugular, threatening to lodge it somewhere all the nepotism in the world couldn’t extract.

Junior seldom spoke to her after that, but she sensed a quiet resentment boiling under all the acne scars. Carli had kept her job, and Cheryl had debated actually seeing a professional psychiatrist. She never had gone to one for her PTSD. Authority figures, doctors weren’t her thing. Not since...

“Ladies?” Wally Senior thundered, squinting his enhanced eyes. “What’s so funny over there?”

Both young women were frowning, wondering how in god’s name anyone could think they were still laughing.

“There’s nothing funny about this, sir!” Carli chimed, covering both their asses in one fell swoop. “We’re just...excited...is all.”

Wally Senior cleared his throat dryly. Junior ogled Cheryl like she was an escaped convict.

_If only you knew, you freakishly tall mutant._

She couldn’t say why she had to pick fights with bullies. She never had, until the lucid dreams had come to an abrupt end. Hallucinations, in order to cope with her father’s actual murder by the deranged cultist, Claudia. In retrospect, Junior wasn’t much of a bully. She ought to apologize for her terrible behavior, but the cutlery incident had been over a year ago, when she was still fresh off the streets.

Maybe Junior had moved on (he had certainly found other employees to pester), and she was over-analyzing things, seeing threats when there were none. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“We’re going to run some scenarios today, and I want you all to take _detailed_ mental notes,” Wally Senior announced. “Oh, and I know we’re closed for the day, but wear your uniforms, name tags and all, if you please! Let’s get started. Everyone to your stations!”

The collective, silent displeasure in the room was enough to burst walls. Sensing the pressure, people opened the double doors and rapidly dispersed, chattering about holiday pay and Thanksgiving weekend plans. A clamor of voices rose, drowning out the awful ringing in her ears.

Out the window, the sun vanished. It was a moonless night. Pools of light illuminated the parking lot, where the vague outlines of cars huddled together.

A toffee-colored hand blurred in front of her, drawing her back into the stuffy room.

“Hello? Is there a guy with a knife out there, or what?” Carli chimed.

“No,” Cheryl muttered, turning away with a shiver. “Sorry.”

“Can’t blame you for fantasizing,” Carli sighed, pointing to her vest. “Your nametag’s crooked.”

Cheryl straightened the bit of plastic. _Heather Mason_ , _Cashier I_ , it read, along with a picture of her sporting shoulder-length, dyed-gray hair and a criminal amount of mascara. The only remnant of her post my-dad-was-murdered-and-I-keep-having-existential-nightmares phase. The only person who would approach her back then was Carli. Everyone else had been afraid of the depressed girl with the dark circles and arsenal of snide remarks.

 _“You don’t just have a rain cloud over you,”_ Carli had told her once, while sharing a cigarette between the two dumpsters behind the store. _“There’s a whole monsoon swirling there. You need someone to be your lighthouse. Don’t look at me, though. I’m done risking my neck for the people I care about.”_

Parekh’s family had a history of neglect and problems for her to make such a frank, callous statement. Cheryl always appreciated her friend’s brutal honesty. Maybe because she’d lied about so many things, including her own name. Hanging around honest people didn’t make her one, though.

Her arm broke into goosebumps as Carli poked it with her pencil.

“C’mon, those shelves aren’t gonna stock themselves. That’s what the A.I. revolution is for."

She wished Silicon Valley would hurry up with that. As far as she was concerned, they still needed a human touch at the crisis center.

“Two hours here, and I’m gone,” Cheryl told her. Once everyone else cleared out, they descended the rubber-lined stairs, which always managed to stick and catch her boot, sabotaging her efforts to leave.

“Then it’s the crisis center until the morning shift,” Carli parroted her schedule back at her. “Did you make any room for sleep in there?”

The dreams might have stopped, but sleep was still her mortal enemy. Late-night television and memorizing every crack in her cheap plaster ceiling were her only hobbies. After all, she never knew what she was going to ‘wake up’ to.

She shrugged. “I’ll take a break at _Polaris_. I can sleep on my office floor.”

Carli rolled her dark brown eyes, shoving her hands in her jeans pockets. “If you’re gonna lie to me, Heather, you should tell a cool story, like how a madman bearing an uncanny resemblance to our boss broke into _Polaris_ and forced you to take sleeping pills, fluffed a pillow for you-”

“-shut up,” Cheryl giggled. They crossed the main floor, headed towards the storeroom in the back: that mysterious cave with the flapping doors, which always reeked of ice and lobsters.

“-forced bunny slippers on your feet, and said ‘ _Heather Mason, if you do not get forty winks this instant, I’ll shoot up the place_ ’-”

“Seek mental help,” she suggested.

They paused before the swaying doors, snickering.

“-right as he holds up a banana, and BAM! You realize you were in a dream the entire time. OoooooOOoOO...”

Carli was still moaning when they pushed the door aside...and nearly slammed right into Wally Junior. One upward glance at the smile curling on his pimpled lips, and Cheryl knew he hadn’t forgotten about the plastic knife. Not for one second.

“ _Ladies_ ,” he crooned, lowering his clipboard. Trying to appear as villainous as possible. “This way."

"No thanks. I don't go places with strangers," Carli snipped.

"But I have a special project for you. Don't you wanna know what it is?”

Cheryl's heart sank. Why did she have the feeling she was about to get into some bullshit? They moved past several ceiling-high piles of boxes and pallets, to what looked like an explosion of snack bags and broken jars.

“What the hell? Did the delivery truck drive through a tornado?” Carli asked.

“Had a little accident earlier,” Junior shrugged. “None of these are shelf worthy-”

“The crisis center or homeless shelter would beg to differ,” Cheryl interrupted.

“-but since their boxes were opened, these units need to be scanned and catalogued. Individually. Then they have to be destroyed. As in thrown out, Heather.”

Both women groaned with disgust.

“I didn’t know we even sold this MSG-coated crap,” Carli complained.

“There must be thousands of bags!” Cheryl cried. “That’ll take all night! And what happened to the green policy here? Since when do we throw out damaged goods?”

“What’s your rush?” Junior asked, quasi-innocently, brushing off her concerns. “Not like you have anything better to do, Mason.”

“You know damn well I do,” she growled. She lowered her hands to her sides. Junior’s eyes flicked to them, to the scowl on her face. He looked away. Maybe she could argue her way out of this, after all.

But he must have been taking pills to grow a spine. Or he was finally growing into his father’s shoes. The arrogant smile spread into a wide grin, displaying perfect teeth that his dad’s overpriced organics and dismissal of competitive wages paid for.

Meanwhile, the most important phone in the world was ringing, unanswered. She was sure of it now. A flicker of rage ran through her.

“Scan them all, and _dispose_ of waste,” he ordered. “Finish the job, Heather, or you’re done here. Are we clear?”

She grit her teeth. _Money. Rent. Landlady’s rabid dogs._ Hissing a sigh, she nodded stiffly.

“Yeah. We’re clear.”

“Yeah ‘ _sir_ ’,” Junior corrected. “Don’t forget your position, Mason.”

“Don’t you have a box of twinkies to stick your dick into, or something?” Carli asked.

A few delivery men in the corner snickered.

Junior shot her a poisonous glare, but said nothing. He left them without another word. The stock crew shook their heads with pity, but none offered to help with the mess. Those who went against the Hornwood family’s wishes tended not to stick around long. They really did run the store like a fiefdom. Or a cult.

And if there was one thing Cheryl hated…

“Fucking asshole,” she growled.

Carli turned to her with a grim line at the corner of her lavender mouth. “Let’s get it over with.”

It took them another fifteen minutes to find the scanners, one of which ended up not being fully charged. They were limited to one scanner while the other was plugged in.

“This really is gonna take all night,” Cheryl said angrily, throwing her mop down. “Fucking prick. Why’d he do it?”

Carli paused, lowering the scanner. “You don’t _really_ think he spilled all these chips on purpose? That affects daddy’s wallet and his allowance, after all.”

Cheryl rubbed her temples. She was coming down with a nasty headache. She wanted nothing more than to curl up with her cat and a glass of something intoxicating.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” she muttered.

Carli gave her a concerned look. “That’s being a little paranoid, Heather.”

The word lingered in the air like a bad smell. She sniffed and wiped her nose, then went to check the other scanner. 30% power. Good enough. The clock ticked by as she and Carli scanned bag after bag, jar after jar. Two hours came and went in a flash.

“You should go,” Carli told her, not looking up from the slowly-shrinking pile. “I got this.”

“But then you won’t get any sleep, either.”

Her friend, who normally complained if she woke up five minutes before her alarm, smiled wanly.

“Eh, who needs it? They need you at _Polaris_.”

Cheryl got up and, without thinking, hugged her friend for the first time ever. Carli froze above her small island of chips. One of the things they had in common was a mutual distaste for physical contact. The fact that she didn’t bat Cheryl away was a good sign. She hoped.

“Thanks, _Carrrrl_ ,” she drawled, letting go.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll be back at quarter to four.”

“I’ll probably still be here cataloguing Dorito’s. One for the road?”

Carli opened a bag and tossed her another. Cheryl placed it in her pocket. Not so long ago, a gift like this meant the difference between starving and having the energy to find a decent bed before sundown.

“Later. Watch out for the Norman Bates of groceries,” she warned.

“He’s not gonna pull _my_ shower curtain aside,” Carli said glibly.

 _Not if I can help it,_ she thought. She waved goodbye and sprinted across the busy store, most of the shelves gutted for restocking, and arrived at the employee locker room. The energy-saving lights hadn't bothered to kick on when she entered, and the room was uncomfortably dark. She grabbed her belongings, ripped off her work vest, and pulled on her signature white utilitarian one. The one she’d had to bleach because of the bloodstains…

“Where do you think _you’re_ going, Mason?”

Cheryl shrieked and whirled around. A gangly shadow darkened the exit. Her heart raced in her ears.

“Quit blocking the door, Junior. Don't you know that's a fire hazard?” she said sarcastically.

“You left your friend high and dry back there,” he accused. “Not very nice.”

Guilt wormed its way into her guts.

“She volunteered. It's what friends do. If you had any you would know.”

“All I _know_ is that you're walking out while the rest of us are working _all night_.”

Cheryl scoffed.

“You call this ‘working’?”

And stormed up to him with closed fists. Ready to take a swing at his smug face. Her hand slipped inside her pocket, where a taser sat snugly in a special pouch she had stitched for it.

“Why do you keep a flashlight in your breast pocket?” he asked snidely, reaching.

She jumped back.

“Try and stop me from leaving, you creep,” she hissed, and brought out the taser. It was still in safety mode, but its appearance chilled the air by a few degrees.

Fear flashed on the young man’s contemptuous face. He feigned letting her go, standing aside, but she knew she had won his surrender. The injured tone in his voice was apparent.

“M-my dad’s gonna hear about this!”

She walked right past him, unresponsive.

“You’re a psycho!” he accused, pointing. “I knew it the second you put in your application!”

It was a lame threat. He was only clinging to his dignity. She had the crisis center to think about. Much more important people on her mind.

"Whatever, what do I care?" he bawled lazily behind her. "Dad's gonna fire your sorry ass, and I'll never have to see you again!"

Now she was mad as hell and felt cornered. She _had_ to defend herself.

“The next time you pull a stunt like this, I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand me?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t do that!” he cried.

His hand clamped down on her bare shoulder and squeezed. An attempt to turn her around, and nothing more, but still...

“I _know_ you need this job. I heard you say to Carli-”

She switched the taser on and pressed the button. Blue voltage lit up the dim hallway. A wicked buzzing rang in both their ears. With a wild grin on her face, she whirled and pretended to zap him in the neck, taking her finger off the button at the last second. He yelped and retreated down the stairs, and she wouldn't be surprised if he had wet his Urban Outfitters slacks a little. 

_If you thought their clothes were expensive now, wait til you get fired!_

Standing at the top of the stairwell, the mad grin faded the moment Junior's voice did as well. Cold displeasure marked her tired face. She tucked the taser away, swallowing a lump in her throat, and eyed the security camera up in the corner.

_Shit._

She just pissed away the best job she could find in this town. She could kiss her apartment with the stray orange cat named Douglas, her online sociology courses (most of which she was failing anyway), and her breaks between the dumpsters with Carli goodbye. She could kiss the crisis center goodbye, too.

That was it. She couldn’t breathe the stale, suffocating air in there another second.

Running down the stairs out into the rainy night, she flipped the hood of her vest up and bolted to the subway station on the corner. Her boots clicked all the way down the stairs (always make a lot of noise, always announce your presence). She slid, her legs flailing out from under her, but caught herself on the banister. She made a hard turn right and slid her subway pass through the reader, slammed through the turnstile, and flung herself on the train, just as the doors slid calmly shut behind her.

An elderly woman in a bristly brown coat stared from the opposite seat, but Cheryl looked away before she could say something.

She did not stop shaking until she was seated behind her desk. The youth crisis center was overloaded with workers and displaced people, but her office in the back was dim. Quiet. She took a deep breath, and waited. Waited an eternity. Afraid to close her eyes.

When the line finally rang, she picked the phone up in one quick swipe.

Static crackled from the speaker. It was raining heavily outside. A bad connection was inevitable.

“Polaris Youth Center, this is Cher-, this is Heather speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

The static intensified sharply. Cringing, she held the phone away.

Someone was whimpering on the other end. A young woman, maybe. Or a child. Definitely not the first time she'd had something like this. She took a deep, steadying breath, saying,

“Hello? Do you need help? It’s okay, you can talk to me.”

She pressed the phone against her ear, eyeing the office door. It was locked. The hallway outside was pitch black. Did one of the lights burn out?

“Hello?”

Distorted static, again. Then, a growing, peculiar sound. An impossible sound. 

A chainsaw was revving heartily, too robust to be background noise. Her stomach tied itself into a knot.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked. She didn’t know what she was hearing, but it was something awful. Something unthinkable.

Then, bubbling and bursting up from the speaker:

_“Jake? JAKE!”_

She felt her veins ice over. Enthused, eager buzzing broke up the woman's screams.

_“HE’S...BEHIND THE WA-...JAKE!_

_JAKE? No...-lease, not again...”_

Click. Silence.

 _She didn’t say ‘not again’..._ Cheryl thought, perspiring. _People only get chainsawed to death once, don’t they?_ She lowered the phone, slowly. Willing her thumb to dial the extension to the police, but it was glued to the side of the phone.

Her desk light died, plunging her office in darkness. The building drained of power. Rain beat against the roof like someone pouring marbles from an airplane.

Static hissed and spat determinedly from the speaker. 

“No,” she moaned. “No.”

A different voice called out from the other end, murmuring religious nonsense. Pain needled its way into her stomach.

Dropping the phone, she doubled over and retched blood. Everything faded, including the familiar, prophetic voice.

“Heather? You okay in there?”

A flashlight beam wavered through the blurred glass like a will-o'-the-wisp. The doorknob jiggled, followed by a set of keys jangling.

The door creaked open.

“Hey! We lost power, but Ted should have the generator up and runnin' soon. Heather? You there?”

The door swung open, and the flashlight beam swept across an empty office. The only thing out of place was the phone, which some careless cleaning person must have knocked to the floor.

Right next to the sticky, red pool they'd forgotten to mop, steadily spreading on the tiles.

“Oh shit! Heather, you okay?”

Footsteps pounded behind the desk. Stout, calloused hands lifted her way up, up from the puddle on the floor. A deeply resonant, male voice soothed,

“You’re gonna be okay. Hang on. Darnel’s got you.”

She wanted to tell Darnel more than anything not to make promises he couldn’t keep, that there was a madman running around somewhere with a chainsaw, but her mouth was clogged with blood.


	2. End of Small Sanctuary

_We lost Jake again._

_It must have happened while we were asleep. Tapps discovered footprints leading from Jake’s sleeping bag into the thicket. His pack was gone, too. He must have given the detective the slip while he was ‘surveilling’ the campsite. Poor Tapps. His ego may never recover._

_At first I wasn’t alarmed. Jake’s done this before. Gone for a day or two, then back again, acting like he never left. I had a gray tabby that would do the same thing. Mom didn’t want him, but Dad had insisted cats were the perfect companion for ‘imaginative’ people, since they’re so low-maintenance. He installed a cat-door in the kitchen, and Dustball would wander in and out, sometimes bringing presents: maple leaves, bird feathers, dead mice, pinecones._

_Then one day, Dustball disappeared._

_I put up posters in my illegible handwriting for a week, until my palms were covered in glue and splinters. Dad had to pull me aside to have a talk. He said cats were free spirits. It was a crime to keep them inside, so we had to accept this could happen. It didn’t matter. I cried for days and days. My horrendous grades got even worse. The only things that consoled me were my books and Dustball’s belongings._

_Then, one day, almost a whole year later, he slipped his rail-thin body through the flappy door and sat down while we were all watching TV. Like it never even happened. Covered in fleas and burs, in need of a few good meals, but alive. I was ecstatic. I whipped up a solution of rosemary for the fleas and Dad took care of the feedings. We had him for another six months before he was struck and killed by a car, right there in our front yard. The driver didn’t even stop to apologize. I planted fresh catnip and his favorite grass where we buried him. That had been my first brush with death._

_Since then, I’ve had more. Much more._

_There I go, rambling again. Even in this dangerous place, my head’s still stuck in the clouds._

_As I was saying, it’s not unlike Jake to wander off. He usually brings me wild plants (flowers, jack-in-the-pulpit, yellow lady’s slippers) and herbs (all different kinds). He’s patient with me and listens to my analytic prattling, when most others would have fumbled for an excuse to walk away._

_I figure he wants to learn, since he spends so much time among plants (“A few more days of hearing you talk, and I might not die the next time I decide to sample mushrooms”). He also scavenges materials for the camp, claiming there are ruins all throughout here. Wherever ‘here’ may be (the flora screams Canada, but I don’t know; it doesn’t feel like home at all)._

_The problem is, Jake insists on going alone. He and I have had many discussions (he calls them arguments) about his ‘vacations’. He’s a talented outdoorsman, but a little too self-assured. No matter what the others say, it’s not stubbornness that drives him, but the need to be alone. I get it. Maybe better than anyone else._

_But he’s been gone for days. It’s not right._

_We all feared it was a matter of time before something happened. I guess I need to back up and explain. We had a trial go wayward recently. Bad, is the word. As bad as it gets. Jake was...well, it was that deformed man—the Hillbilly, Adam calls him. Billy, he...got us all._ _~~As in dismembered and killed~~ _ **_._ ** _I’ve been keeping tally, and that makes five matches in a row where Jake and I…_

_Meg is on three and Dwight is on four. I’m not sure how many times the others have been revived._

_When we first discovered the resurrection fire, we were manic. Delirious. How was this possible? Did death no longer have any consequences? Did we all get to spring back to life, like my perennials?_

_We were wrong. It’s not the blessing we thought it was. My cat came back from what I was certain was the dead, only to have something much worse happen to him._

_Dying...it weighs you down. It’s the horrific flashbacks. Food and water start to lose their appeal. Skin dries out and cracks easier. Speaking becomes a chore. Thinking is a burden. Not even my best herbal remedies help. Jake and I have both lost a lot of weight. In fact, Feng made a harmless joke last night that if I failed another trial, I might become a zombie. Jake overhead it, but said nothing. That wasn’t so unusual. The perturbed look on his face was._

_“We need someone familiar with this world. With its rules,” he told me recently. “There have gotta be others, maybe people who’ve been here longer. Who might know this stuff, the way you know botany and I know the woods.”_

_I should have known better, but I’m horrible at taking hints. Not long after sharing that, he left_ _ ~~me~~_ _us._

_He’s right. If we don’t get some direction soon, we’re going to fall apart. Maybe that’s what ‘it’ wants (I don’t know what to call the thing in the sky, except evil). There are a lot of us now—fourteen, to be exact—but we are without a leader. No one’s qualified; no one’s willing to step up. Certainly not me or Jake. No one’s been through anything like this before. How could they have? It’s all so unreal._

_The closest thing we have is Bill, but he just raves about ‘the enemy’ and chain-smokes nonstop. He’s taught people a few tricks, and he’s tough as hemp, but what’s tough compared to these...murderers? Killers?_

_They say cats have nine lives. Who knows how many we have left? There might be some kind of scoreboard ticking down. The others feel it, too. If we don’t get some relief soon, I’m afraid of what the future holds._

_Jake, please come back._

_-Claudette_

_P.S.-How about a little bit of humor to soothe the pain? I dreamed recently that something was ringing at the gas station. A red phone. I picked it up, but all I heard was this funky static. Billy was after Jake, and I panicked and screamed. That’s when I heard a voice on the other end. A woman tried to counsel me, like I’d called a suicide hotline. More like murder hotline._

_(...I guess that wasn’t very funny at all. I wish I was better at jokes, like Feng or Ace. Seems I’m always the subject, not the speaker.)_

_Thing is, I don’t remember there being a working phone at the gas station. But dreams don’t have to make sense. Mine seldom do. Maybe Billy keeps the gas station running, when he’s not hunting people? What’s the point of that? Is he lonely or something? I don’t want to think about him too much._

* * *

The moment Cheryl opened her eyes, she wished she hadn’t. She was tucked into a hospital gurney. A white curtain was drawn halfway around the bed, the other half opened to the door. The lights were off, save for the hallway. The air smelt of cleaning products and a stale, rubbery odor. An annoying mechanical buzz lingered in her ears, amplified by the silence.

She sat up violently. The IV attached to her arm pulled tight.

“Help! Someone!” she cried. She was probably too late, but she had to try and get someone to call the police. The girl on the call might still need her help.

“Help! Ow, shit…”

Excruciating pain radiated through her throat and voice box. She lay back on the pillows, wincing. Sweat plastered her side-swept bangs to her forehead. Outside her room, wheels tracked steadily on the linoleum. Two nurses conversed under their breath, until they heard her shouts.

“Doctor Bridges!” one called in a downy, pleasant voice. “Your patient’s awake!”

They meant her, of course. She’d made enough noise to rouse the comatose. She sighed aloud, wincing again as the air aggravated her throat. She shut her eyes.

“You sound lively,” a foreign voice announced. “I guess the IV fluids helped.”

She opened them, glancing at the doorway. A slim, balding man in his mid-forties was scanning his clipboard. He thumbed the first few papers back, reading avidly. Did they have a whole novel typed about her?

“Tracheal tear,” he read aloud. “Dehydration. Sleep deprivation. The perfect combo for a trip to _LaLa-Land_. Fortunately, the amount of blood you lost was superficial. It certainly scared the daylights out of that poor young man, though.”

She blinked languidly. “Darnel?”

“Yes. He insisted on riding in the ambulance with you.”

She sighed, massaging her throat. As the director of the crisis center, Darnel would have done the same thing for anyone. A boss actually worth his salt.

“How did I tear my trachea?” she groaned. Her hand slipped from her throat to her hairline, pulling on the roots. The doctor made a point to watch her, but he seemed more interested in the riddle of her medical chart. She suddenly had the urge to snatch and burn it.

She didn’t like people digging into her past. The past was best left in the grave. No matter how many shovelfuls of dirt she tossed on it, it still managed to creep up on her.

“Infection could be a cause. Have you had any throat soreness lately?”

“No.”

“Any fever or weakness?”

She knit her brow. He was running her in circles like a show pony, hoping she would trip.

“Something tells me you _know_ I don’t,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of paperwork there, I’m guessing you ran labs while I was out. I haven’t been to a doctor in almost two years.”

“Where you were treated for—let’s see here—dog bites, scrapes, slashes, punctures. Burns. And a tetanus shot _?_ "

“Don’t forget the cherry on top. My brunette roots grew out. Do you know how expensive bleaching your hair can be?”

He lowered his clipboard pointedly. His bedside manner slipped, and he wore the same expression that Darnel often did when the worst cases stumbled into the crisis center.

The corners of her eyes began to burn, but she savagely blinked until they stopped.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Doctor Bridges…”

They had a mostly one-sided conversation. She insisted he call the police first, for that woman’s sake. But Darnel had been questioned by staff, and he’d told them the line hadn’t been called, so that hadn’t been what ‘set off’ her episode. While she mulled over that revelation, Doctor Bridges believed that the tear had been caused by traumatic injury of some kind, and she was lying to cover it up.

“You have bruises and scars all over your body,” he told her. “Is someone-”

“I am _not_ a victim,” she interrupted. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Can you explain these injuries, then?”

“Clumsiness.” She shrugged.

He gave her a disappointed look.

“I would expect someone who works at a crisis center to have a little more self-preservation.”

She frowned. Now he thought she was playing games with him. Her feet squirmed under the blankets.

“I’d tell you the truth, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me. I used to be an ER surgeon. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve heard.”

_Have I got a vacation town for you, Doctor._

She took a deep breath, saying, “Two years ago, my dad was murdered.”

Doctor Bridges sat back, straightening. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“I started seeing monsters. Demons. _They_ started seeing _me_ ,” she said gravely. “It was Claudia. She had my father killed. She wanted me to be alone, in pain. To feel what she felt.”

“What who felt? Claudia?”

“Alessa.”

Somewhere down the hall, a vital signs alarm went off and fell silent.

“Who’s Alessa?” he asked.

“My past life, or part of it. A girl who was burned alive in a town called Silent Hill.”

The moment the name left her lips, like a spell, the doctor jerked visibly.

“Would you do me favor, Miss...Heather?”

“Maybe,” she rasped.

“You’re medically cleared for discharge. But I want you to speak with one of our resident psychiatrists. I think they might be able to help.”

“Fine,” she agreed, folding her arms. “I’ll just tell them the same thing. I’m not making this up.”

Doctor Bridges nodded, distracted. He seemed eager to get out of there, even though his pager hadn’t gone off.

“Good. Please do. It was a pleasure meeting you. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” she croaked to his white coat as he swept out of the room. His hurried footfalls echoed through the corridor. She smiled wanly. She could practically hear Alessa cackling. Maybe she should have a chat with that shrink, after all. Or a priest.

_Pssh. As if._

She may not know what direction her life was headed in, but it definitely didn't involve getting checked into a looney bin. The moment she was alone again, she changed into her clothes, gathered her scant belongings, and slipped out the door.

* * *

_The fog took Nea, David, Feng, and Bill._

_Things are tense around the camp. It only ever takes four at a time. Everyone keeps busy in their own way. Kate strums her guitar. Her chords have been more solemn lately. Distracted, discordant. Adam reads his Japanese literature, lowering his book often to stare dejectedly into the woods. Meg exercises and gathers firewood until she passes out. Dwight pokes the coals, staring into them so much, I fear he’ll damage his eyesight._

_Laurie plays cards with Ace, but instead of glancing over her hand, she looks over her shoulder. Tapps patrols the camp with a stick for a club, insisting we aren’t safe, even though we’ve never been attacked here._

_Quentin...Quentin sleeps, if you can believe it. He claims the campfire is the only time he can get some decent shuteye. Strange dude._

_When I’m not writing, I’m cataloguing my plants. I’ve already made a compendium of the ones Jake brought me, but I need more pages to press them on. The rest I’ve started grinding up between two stones and funneling their powders into jars._

_Once, I applied for a job at an herbalist’s shop. They were big on essential oils and aromatherapy—their top money-makers. One whiff of their concoctions was enough to transport the customer to a better place, or so they claimed. I wish people could see the natural beauty of plants the way I do. You don’t need to tell lies in order to appreciate what they have to offer._

_Oh! I did a funny thing. I’m terrible at humor—sarcasm flies right over my head, which is saying a lot—but I can’t stop worrying and when I worry, I do weird things. I had a surplus of amaranth and some scrap cloth, a bit of string a crow had dropped when it flew over the camp. I pressed and wrapped it and tied some satchels._

_Amaranth has no scent, but it lasts forever. I thought there was something symbolic, something maybe I could convince the others to hold onto. I had thought to give one to Jake when he gets back. It’s been six days now._

_Another childish fantasy. This time, I won’t be hanging any ‘missing’ posters. Jake’s not coming back. If he does, he’ll just scare me by wandering away again. Why should I waste my precious time worrying? I burned the bundle to see what would happen. Not a whole lot, although it did make our camp stink like singed yarn. It created plumes of smoke that I hadn’t anticipated. All different colors, too. Whoops. David got angry and threw the other satchels I’d made into the flames. Nea joined in. Bill and Feng scolded them, right before the fog rolled in._

_Poof! Gone._

_Now everyone’s just sitting here, not talking to each other. I usually prefer silence, but this is getting ridiculous. No one’s putting wood on the fire, and it’s starting to die. I guess I’ll go look for some more. We might be bereft of so many things, but there’s no shortage of dry kindling._

_-Claudette_

_Addendum: He came back! I found fresh tracks separate from his old ones. He must have checked on the camp and ventured back into the woods. If I hurry, I should be able to catch up with him. The others won’t even notice I’m gone. The only time they notice me is when I make a mistake. I still hope they all come back in one piece. Even Nea, as prickly as she is._

_Wish me luck!_

* * *

“Who can tell me, what it means to survive?”

Cheryl stood in front of a half-circle of plastic chairs. Chairs filled with beleaguered, slumped, hungry teenagers. It was Sunday morning, and the only signs her question had been heard were a few owlish blinks.

Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her white vest. She brought one out to check the time on her watch: 7:05 a.m.

“Is it just getting by? Is it having a warm bed and a roof over your head? How long until ‘getting by’ isn’t good enough?”

Her audience exchanged uncertain looks with one another. The promise of coffee and a warm breakfast had been enough to lure their jaded butts to their seats. But just barely. Their anti-bullshit radars were as finely attuned as hers was.

“When you’re alone on the streets, you only look at what’s right in front of you.”

A few nods, there. She raised her voice a little.

“But the key to surviving is _hope_. You have to have something in the future worth fighting for.”

A girl not a day over fifteen, covered in piercings and tattoos, with fresh track marks on her arms, watched her intently. Her tangled green hair hung down past her bony shoulders.

“Even if you have no one. Fight for yourself,” Cheryl told them. “Be your own advocate. Cuz I’ll tell you a secret: no one else is gonna step up. We can help you and provide guidance. But you have to get behind the wheel.”

Collective sighs, like the hissing of a steam engine.

“When can we eat?” a young man in a baggy sweatshirt shouted from the back.

She went on talking, ignoring him. It had taken months of practice to get over the interruptions. The challenges. She had been where they were sitting, so full of resentment. A few steely glares and rolled eyes were nothing she couldn’t handle (compared to the nightmares, but those hadn’t been real, had they?)

“You okay?” Darnel asked from the corner.

She blinked. “Huh?”

“You, uh, shut your eyes there for a sec.” He laughed, shrugging. “I guess we all need extra caffeine today, am I right guys? Who needs a refill?”

He grinned at the teens. A few nodded to appease him.

Blushing, she turned to face them all again. The walls in the room felt tighter, as if slowly inching inwards.

“Bad times are like driving through a tunnel. Nothing but darkness all around you. Sometimes, you think you’re never gonna see daylight again. Just when you think it’s gonna go on forever, the tiniest hint of light appears. Then a little more. And a little more. You don’t stop. You keep running through that hell, until you feel the sun on your face.”

“Jesus,” the tattooed girl huffed. “Not the tunnel crap _again_.”

Sweat trickled down her spine. Public speaking did that to people, Cheryl told herself. The walls _were not_ trembling, nothing was _decaying_ …

 _YOU BRATS!_ she wanted to scream. _YOU THINK YOU’VE SEEN IT ALL? YOU’VE NEVER STARED A MONSTER INTO ITS GROUND-UP FACE AS YOU BEAT ITS SKULL INTO HAMBURGER WITH A PIPE. YOU HAVEN’T HAD TO WALK IN ON YOUR FATHER’S DEAD BODY AND BE HUNTED IN PLACES NOT EVEN DARKNESS WILL TOUCH. YOU THINK YOU HAVE PROBLEMS? DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH!_

She took a deep breath. With a brisk, polite nod, she finished with:

“F-figure out where that light is for you, and hit the gas. D-don’t stop until you’re out of that damned town-, uh, tunnel. That’s all I have to say for today.”

“Thank god,” someone mumbled.

( _DON’T MAKE ME GET MY PIPE..._ )

Chair legs slid on tile in a chorus of hollow, metal scrapes. The group rushed to the table to stuff their pockets with food before going back to the streets. A few lingered, scrounging for seconds, looking unsure. Some of the staff were able to pull them aside and speak with them. Darnel at one point gave her a thumbs up, nodding appreciatively.

Her work finished, she took off, unable to stomach the indoors any longer.

Dashing out the main doors, she glanced at her wrist: her watch ticked past 10:30 a.m. The sky was a gray and impenetrable ceiling. It was snowing heavily. She tried to tell herself it was beautiful, as she crossed the empty parking lot. A sign of the cheerful times to come...

...Another lonely Christmas without anyone, missing her father, working to keep her mind busy. The dark corners of her psyche loved to press in at her most vulnerable, and nothing quite exposed her like the alleged ‘happiest time of the year’.

She shook her head. Carli was awaiting her response. She’d invited her to eat late Thanksgiving dinner with her mom’s side of the family. With no cell phone plan in her budget, Cheryl had hoped to catch her at the end of her cashier’s shift.

Even with the cold, wet flakes melting playfully on her cheeks, all she could dwell on was the singe of hot ashes, all she could hear was the siren blaring across a mausoleum of vacant buildings…

She stopped to look around, her anxious breaths clouding the air.

Where was the subway station? Shouldn’t she have reached it by now? Carli would be wondering where she was, soon.

Leather riding boots crunched on fresh snow.

Her slender figure disappeared into the swirling white.

* * *

_Love is the bond that keeps 'normal' families together. Well, that, and the insurance policies._

_Murder is our cement. The reaction that fuses us together._

_The four of us might come from different homes, but we’ve spilled the same blood. It’s a kind of ritual. An iron contract that can’t be unmade, no matter how much you attack us. Or how much we attack each other. We knew the stakes when we killed that cleaning guy. We did it gladly, for each other._

_Now we’re all we have. Just the way we planned it...but nobody could’ve predicted this._

_We’re all stuck here, at Ormond. There are walls. There never were any before. We can’t leave. It never stops snowing. It’s been going for days and days. Something won’t let us go. I’m not talking about the blizzard._

_What’s even the word for this? Purgatory? Christ, this is so fucked._

_We’re all growing impatient. Restless. Ready to slit each other’s throats. We gotta blow off some steam soon or somebody’s gonna pop. It doesn’t help that Julie keeps whispering in Frank’s ear, egging him on. Susie’s even more withdrawn than usual. She barely leaves her room..._

_I don’t care what anyone says, it’s_ **his** _fault. No one dares say that to his face. Least of all me. Pretty sure no one suspects me of keeping a shitty journal, either. If anyone finds this notebook, Frank’ll kick my ass. Maybe worse. I can never tell with him, but it’s safe to assume the absolute worst._

_Kinda why I admire the guy, to be honest._

_Lots more to write about, but I gotta go. Julie says someone’s runnin’ like hell towards the lodge. She’s probably just seeing shit. Or making it up to impress Frank._

_But...if she’s right...it’s_ **_my_ ** _turn. You know what that means._

_Isn’t family time the best?_

_-Joey_


	3. Snow Driven

The world went white.

Just as quickly, the skies turned slate-gray and ominous. Savage winds transformed snowflakes into icy projectiles. Cheryl was forced to crouch and tuck herself into a ball, shivering uncontrollably. Just when she thought she’d be frozen solid, a switch was flipped, and the blizzard calmed, the snow returning to a steady cascade, like feathers tumbling from a slashed pillow.

Timidly, she raised her head and stood, a lump of dread in her throat.

Her boots sank into a foot of snow. It had only just started coming down when she’d left the crisis center. _The center!_ She spun around, hoping for a sign, a person, for anything at all. The street was gone. No lights. No cars. No _Polaris_ to guide her. Only the vanishing suggestion of a path leading toward an opaque wall.

Up ahead, the looming shadow of something large, a mountain or a building, awaited. The sinister aura she expected to feel at any second never came, perhaps due to the cold. She prayed that when she reached her destination, it wouldn’t be in _that town._

Trudging along, Cheryl smiled grimly. She’d been fooled by hope before. A few years ago, a normal day turned into a nightmare. The evil in Silent Hill had reached out and dug its roots as far as the mall and subway station of her old residence, just to get to her.

 _Never again,_ she’d told herself when it was over. _Only a bad dream._

After all, no one else would believe her story. Why should she? Repressed dreams couldn’t hurt you, could they?

“Never say never,” she laughed weakly.

Somewhere far off, an ice shelf cracked and thundered down a cliff. The path snaked up a steep mountain. Pine trees and scattered boulders materialized in the scant moonlight. The wintry onslaught softened; the fog divided into ethereal slugs that slithered and scudded. The higher she climbed, the tamer the weather became, the air growing thinner. She had to fight twice as hard for breath.

Worse than the swirling cauldron of elements was the hollow sensation of abandonment. She was completely and utterly alone.

Then, her boot landed in a compacted footprint. A brand of sneaker that was popular with young men. Okay, maybe she wasn’t alone. But that didn’t mean she was safe. She looked around, perplexed, and froze. What she had mistaken for a scrap of sheet or a trash bag flapping in the wind was...

“So,” she murmured. “You’re here, too.”

The thing in the tattered garment stared solemnly. The wind tore at its dark ponytail, its red ribbon about to tear loose. Unlike her, the apparition didn’t shiver or rub its arms or fidget. What was cold to a memory?

**_((If you could forget about us so easily, Cheryl, be careful of what else you have ‘forgotten’.))_ **

She turned away from the spirit’s likeness, running as fast as she could in the knee-deep drifts. A sign hovered in the air. She stood before it, waiting for the fog to clear, chewing her bottom lip. Broken machinery clamored in her head. Gears ground, pipes hissed. The fog parted at last, and she glimpsed the faded letters.

 _‘Welcome to Mount Ormond Resort’_ , the sign read. _Your dream getaway awaits!_

“The hell it does.”

Even so, she breathed a steady sigh of relief, her teeth clicking. She could no longer feel her fingers or toes.

A primal need to find warmth drove her straight into the heart of the abandoned resort. One glance at it’s grayed, derelict face was enough to tell her that business had ceased for decades. She placed her hand on fresh graffiti. A menacing smiley face with gritting teeth and feral eyes. The same motif had been sprayed or carved over and over again with slight variations: devil horns, stitches for a mouth, fangs, blackened eyes, along with the word ‘Legion’ and the abbreviation ‘F.J.S.J.’.

A fire crackled steadily, surrounded by a sunken orange couch. This dump was someone’s dream getaway, after all. But whose?

“Frank? Susie?” a young male called, annoyed. “Julie? Where the fuck are you guys?”

 _F.S.J.,_ she mused. _What are the odds he’s the other J?_

A shadow bobbed along the wall. She ducked behind the rental counter, peering around the corner. Floorboards creaked as the speaker walked into view. He brushed ice off his shoulders and stood by the fire. Even though he was indoors, he didn’t remove his cloth mask. He was dressed like a bank robber.

Just when she was about to emerge and call out, he turned sharply. A large generator at the base of the stairs caught his interest. He walked over to it and dealt it a hard kick with his sneaker.

“That’s new.”

He padded toward the entrance closest to her, gawking up at an object hanging from a post. She couldn’t see from her angle.

“That’s _also_ new,” she heard him say delightedly. “Sick. Was this Frank’s idea? Yo Frank! Where you at, bro? I blanked for a second. Is someone still outside? Where'd all this new stuff come from?”

Receiving no answer, he rubbed the back of his head, muttering, “Did Frank spike my drink last night? Shit, not again." And dashed back inside, tracking fresh snow. The fire blazed. It must have been burning for quite some time. His prints melted in seconds.

This one talked a little too much to himself. She'd seen his type before at the center. All he was missing was a bullet accessory or an anarchy sweatshirt. Nothing a little antipsychotic cocktail couldn't cure, but they were miles and miles from any psych ward. Or the police.

Sweat gathered along Cheryl’s spine, her vest becoming uncomfortably hot. What was she stalling for? He obviously wasn’t a monster or a cultist, just a little freaked out. The mask was a red flag, but it was snowing like the devil. At the very least, she should ask him for some spare clothes.

She stood up and started to wave.

“No way,” he breathed. “Unreal.”

He hadn’t seen her, running to the opposite doorway instead. She watched him reach into his pants pocket and pull out a knife. He twisted it in his hands, taking a few practice stabs at the air.

“Julie was right. Time to teach these assholes a lesson,” he laughed, a little too emphatically, gouging the knife into a wooden post. It shredded huge chunks of timber.

 _What is he doing? Idiot's going to dull his blade,_ she thought, frowning.

"If Susie was squeamish before, she's gonna flip shit when she sees what I'm gonna-aaggh!"

He doubled over so fast Cheryl, still lost in her musings, almost jumped and gave herself away. The young man clutched at his head as if something had taken a baseball bat to his skull. A migraine? Withdrawal?

"I'm sorry!" he groaned, sinking to his knees. "I thought I was seein' shit! Lay off me! Lay off!" 

She stood completely still, eyes widened. _Carli’s not gonna believe this. If I ever see her again._

He rose to his full height, shaking himself like a dog. 

"Frank was right," he said thinly, looking up at the gray skies. "Always another boss. Ain't that a bitch."

With that, he went stalking onto the grounds, the knife held at his side. She crept toward the entrance, standing in the pool of his footprints. He was creeping down to another generator (why was it out in the middle of nowhere?). This one was powered on, she could see the smoke from her distance. And, crouched around it, trying to huddle together for warmth...

“Look out!” she shrieked.

The guy with the knife, who had called himself Joey, wheeled around and spotted her. She stared stupidly back at him. The people on the gen shot up, confused.

Without a word, he turned and charged at all three of them, scattering them like sheep, slashing wildly. One young man in a tie and glasses got away. A girl with braids took off at Olympic-runner speeds. A third, an older man in a police uniform, took a slice to the arm. She could hear his startled shout all the way up the slope.

The attacker wasn’t finished. He came charging at her up the hill, bloody knife raised, gouts of steam jetting from under his mask like some kind of deranged bull. Muscle memory took over. Cheryl fled deeper into the resort, located the rental lockers, and hid inside one, shaking. Once his eager thuds and footfalls ceased, she slipped out, returning to the scene of the attack.

The generator sputtered. A trail of blood led around some boulders into the lift shack. She approached the shack cautiously, listening. A man groaned in pain as a roll of tape was unwound and torn. The sounds sent her right back to the nights of hoarding first-aid kits.

“Hold still,” the young woman urged. “Almost done.”

“I’m tryin’! This ain’t exactly a bee sting.”

“There! Done. Guess we should be glad he didn’t stick around to finish the job.”

“He’ll be back,” the man uttered. “They _always_ come back.”

“Hello?” she called, sticking her head around the corner.

The woman let out a yelp and jumped. The cop, seated on the frozen floor, tried to leap to his feet, but slipped backwards against the wall. The bandage on his arm was already soaked with blood. No otherworldly monster had done that to him, either, but a human male. A young man she guessed was close to her age.

“Who the hell are you?” the injured man cried. “Why’dya have that smirk on your face?”

Cheryl relaxed. “Sorry.”

“Relax, Tapps,” the woman said, patting him on his uninjured shoulder. “She’s the fourth.”

“What do you mean _‘fourth’_?” Cheryl repeated, suspicious. It sounded a little too ‘chosen one’ for her tastes.

They hesitated, exchanging worried looks. Her impatience (and fear) boiled over.

“One of you better tell me _right_ _now_ : where are we? What the fuck is going on?” she demanded, her hand creeping toward her pocket. The one with the taser.

“Shhh!” the woman held a finger to her own lips. “He’ll hear you.”

“You mean Joey?” Cheryl said. “He said his name was Joey. I heard him before he attacked you.”

“Aw, man,” the man groaned, pulling his cap down over his eyes. “A first-timer and a new killer. Great. Just great.”

“Did you say ‘killer’?” Cheryl stammered. “Is this some kind of police sting?”

The cop threw his head back and wheezed, trying not to laugh.

“Look, there’s no time to explain,” the woman said. “My name’s Meg. This is Tapps.”

“ _Detective_ Tapps.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Just follow us and try to keep up.”

“Great,” Cheryl sighed. “This is insane.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tapps warned.

She didn’t fully trust him yet, but she could tell he was being truthful. Their odds were better together, so she stepped aside, letting them exit the lift shack. They returned to the generator and started repairing it. Chery kept a lookout, now and again watching what they were doing. This place was alien to her. The grounds were surrounded by stone walls, with no visible openings.

 _How did I get here, again?_ She shuddered, feeling ill. Her nerves were catching up with her.

“Guys, I’m _really_ confused,” she whimpered. “Can one of you _please_ tell me what’s going on?”

Tapps concentrated on his work, but Meg whispered in hushed, anxious tones,

“All you need to know is that we need to finish these before we can leave. There are five. See if you can spot ‘em. Look for the lights at the top. We need to power the exit gates. There’s one over there.”

She pointed. Cheryl followed the direction with pink, bloodshot eyes. A section of brick wall rose up higher than the rest, where a set of corroded metal doors sat.

“ _Why_?” was all she could manage to croak. “Why is this happening?”

Tapps snorted. “Ain’t that the question? Puzzles and sick games used to be my wheelhouse, and even I can’t figure it out.”

She put her hands on her hips, exasperated. “Figure _what_ out? You people aren’t making any sense!”

“Easy, kid. We’re on your side. I meant what this all is. You’ll see. Everybody learns,” he hummed. “You learn the rules, or you disappear, like Jake.”

“Jake’s _not_ gone!” Meg cried. “Don’t say that. And where did Dwight run off to?”

Tapps leaned into her face. “Quiet! Do you wanna bring that asshole back over here?”

A manic voice behind them whooped:

_“TOO LATE!”_

Cheryl shrieked and spun. A black blur ran straight for them, knife streaking seamlessly through the air. Meg was closest. She took the brunt of the blade in the back and screamed, stumbling away. 

“Fuck!” Tapps fled, but the assailant pursued him, slashing low at his legs, delivering a final stab in the weak spot of his Kevlar between his neck and shoulder.

“Agh!” The detective dropped, bleeding. Only then did she realize he had no standard issue, no weapon to defend himself.

Cheryl had seen enough. She bolted uphill toward the resort.

“Come back!” Meg cried, writhing. She had also collapsed, the snow beneath her fire-engine red.

But Cheryl was still running when she looked over her shoulder to see the masked man throw the wounded girl on a meat hook. Her frantic screams tore across the grounds.

“Kid! Come back! Help us!” Tapps groaned, crawling after her.

She slid to a halt. The attacker prowled toward them both, broad shoulders hunched, knife held in one stiff arm. The cop was between her and that knife. She knew what she had to do. What she had done in Silent Hill, the thing that had kept her alive in a circus of rust and gore.

She ran.

Tapps pleaded after her, roaring obscenities which were quickly silenced as he was lifted and carried away, toward what she assumed was another hook. The masked man was a murderer and somehow she’s ended up in his homicidal warpath with these other trapped people. She needed to get away and get out. Nothing else but her life mattered.

Arriving at the firepit common area, she stood in the same spot so many others must have during happier times. Instead of excited chatter, Tapps’ bellows merged with Meg’s shrieks. They had tried to help her, and she’d turned tail like a coward.

It was as if she’d forgotten everything from the past few years. And why not? She had tried so hard to convince herself of the lie. She’d almost believed it. Even if she had, she’d never been faced with anything like this before. Her gut told her ‘Joey’ and this mountain of horrors were only the start of things. Something vast and Machiavellian awaited her beyond those exit gates.

Assuming she got out, alive.

“What do I do?” she sobbed, covering her eyes. “What now?”

The empty building creaked and groaned against the winds. Black soot rained from the rafters. She shut her eyes, not quite praying, not exactly asking. Coaxing a deeper, buried part of herself to come forth. To guide her, as it had in the neglected past. She felt so far away from anywhere, as if on another planet. Would it even respond?

The wind moaned softly through cracks in the roof. It was the only ‘voice’ she heard.

Cheryl knelt by the generator, examining it, pulling random levers. The fireplace cracked and shot sparks into the air. Tapps and Meg no longer screamed. She wiped her eyes, weeping quietly.

 _'Always another boss'_ , Joey had said. What had he meant by that?

It seemed she wasn't going to get any answers unless she played by the rules.

All she could do was get her hands dirty and hope for a miracle.

* * *

_“We should’ve never gotten our hands dirty!”_

_Susie flung the accusation, her voice cracking. It was the most she’d spoken since the stabbings. That night blurred together into one twisted timeline they couldn’t seem to escape._

_“Now look what’s happened!” she cried._

_Joey turned to Frank. “You sure there’s no way out?”_

_Frank shrugged, examining the drops of blood on his knife. They twinkled like severed mouse eyes in the firelight._

_The quartet were gathered in a semicircle around the firepit, watching the flames consume what they had destroyed—doors, chairs, loose boards, debris from the wreck. Pieces of their home in flames. The blizzard had intensified and even if the cops didn’t come for them, they had to protect themselves from the onslaught of nature._

_That situation now dealt with, they stood around, panting, itching for someone to blame._

_“The sicko grabbed me!” Julie insisted. “We had to do it! We had to.”_

_Frank waited for Susie’s girlish sobs to quiet down. The girl was hiding her (masked) face in her ratty sleeve. She could be so fucking melodramatic, sometimes._

_“Imagine if all the victims in the world could do what WE did,” he declared. “There would BE no victims.”_

_“We didn’t know if he was gonna hurt her, man,” Joey objected._

_“Of course he was,” Julie spat. “What rosy world do you live in, Joey?”_

_“Fuck off, Julie.”_

_“...He’s right.”_

_The blonde and the punk in the black hoodie turned toward Frank. Julie’s bloodied fingers curled and uncurled. “What?”_

_“We don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”_

_He walked over to her. By her rigid body language the last thing she wanted was to be touched. They were all still rattled from the incident with the cleaning guy, whose body was still lying fresh in the woods._

_Frank drew Julie’s shaking body against his solid one, peering down at her through the shaded eyeholes of his mask. Flecks of blood decorated it like a perverted Easter egg. She eased against him, but the stiffness never left her._

_“It doesn’t matter,” he soothed. “The deal has been struck. Don’t you idiots get it?”_

_“Watch it.” Joey uncrossed his thick arms. “I ain’t no idiot.”_

_“We’re all idiots,” Susie wailed. She lowered her hands. Her nails left gouge marks in her mask._

_Grinning under his mask, Frank asked, “You can feel the change, can’t you? We’re not in Kansas, anymore.”_

_“Bullshit!” Joey bellowed._

_“Frank? What do you mean?” Julie asked. “What ‘deal’?”_

_“There’s a reason we can’t leave. We WILLED it to happen and it heard our thoughts. The universe read our hearts.”_

_“You’re nuts,” Joey accused. He turned his back on them. “I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”_

_“Don’t go out there Joey!” Susie cried, pulling on his arm. “There are things in the woods. Voices. The spider we all saw!”_

_Joey ran his fist through the plaster wall, and Susie quieted down, shrinking away from him._

_“There’s no giant spider! You’re all hallucinating,” he spat. He jerked his fist free. “I’m not drinking the kool-aid Frank. We should have skipped town hours ago. Maybe we can still try before the cops come.”_

_Frank left Julie in a few bounds and held the knife to Joey’s throat while his back was turned. He moved like an imp, like gravity didn’t exist._

_“There ain’t no cops. Not anymore.”_

_Joey spun around slowly. “Get that knife outta my face.”_

_Frank lowered it. “This is what we wanted. Don’t you see? If you walk away now you’ll hit a solid wall, same as earlier. This is our forever home.”_

_“F-forever?” Susie squeaked._

_“No,” Joey muttered. “It ain’t possible, man.”_

_Frank tilted his head, tapping the blade against his thigh, asking, “Before tonight, did you think murder was possible?”_

_Joey fumbled for a retort. He was so easily subdued. Frank let out a low chuckle._

_“Oh, shit,” Julie breathed, nodding. “The chaos magic. It worked, didn’t it?”_

_“What’d I tell you, Jules?” Frank purred._

_She ran to his outstretched arm, embracing him again. This time her body aligned with his. Her warmth seeped into his cold, unfeeling skin. As long as they understood one another, the way he_ willed _her to understand him, she would never betray him._

_“So now what?” Joey asked. “We just sit around? What about food and water? What about the vision, Frank?”_

_“Don't worry about that now. Come here, brother.”_

_He put his hand on Joey’s shoulder, drawing him in. Joey placed his hand on Frank and turned and held out his other one to Susie. She lingered by the fire, staring at her sneakers._

_“Nothing’s changed for us. We’re a family. A tribe,” Frank said to the two. “We’ll defend what’s ours and lash out at a world that rejects our simple desire not to conform. If anyone sets foot on these grounds, we’ll butcher ‘em and send ‘em back to the slime pit they came from. Their blood will make us stronger and unite us.”_

_“_ Angels to some _,” Julie quoted._ “Demons to others _.”_

_“Hellraiser,” Frank sighed in her ear. “That’s my girl.”_

_“This place is all we got left, so we better defend it.” Right on time, Joey said what Frank knew he’d be thinking. He had planted the idea there, after all._

_“I’d rather be a demon than some pussy angel, though,” Joey added thoughtfully._

_Frank examined the knife again, holding it in front of them all so they could see the reflection of the flames. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his whole pathetic life._

_“Both were pawns in a fake god’s game,” Frank reminded them. “I’d rather be the executioner. Wouldn’t you?”_

_Joey thought of his boss who had humiliated him. He nodded, slowly._

_“Come on,” Frank beckoned to the last person to resist: Susie._

_She shook her head, fingers picking at the frayed hem of her skirt._

_Oh, the melodrama never ceased. Someday soon, he would have to teach her what was really worth crying about._

_“Your family treated you like shit,” he told the pink-haired attention-seeker. His words were intimate, as if she and him were the only ones in the room._

_“They neglected and abused you. We are your real family, whether you want us or not. You_ **_do_ ** _want us, don’t you, Susie?”_

_Looking down, she mumbled miserably, “Y-yes.”_

_Julie sighed. “We know, Suze. Don’t make Frank ask again.”_

_Susie rushed over and took Joey’s hand. They embraced in a group huddle, Julie leaning against Frank, Susie against Joey, Joey against Frank._

_“This isn’t the end,” Frank declared. “It’s the beginning. We should celebrate instead of standing here, moping.”_

_Outside, the raging storm broke over the mountain face, but their crumbling den of iniquity (and the gates that had popped up overnight) protected them._

_They broke apart. Julie and Susie sank down on the couch, snickering about something over a bottle of cheap vodka—their usual coping mechanism. Joey left in the direction of his room, hoping to get some shuteye._

_“Hold up.”_

_Joey glowered down from the stairwell. Frank was approaching him, hands in his pockets. He took out a new knife, one Joey had never seen before._

_Speaking in a low voice out of earshot of the women, Frank muttered, “The girls still need some convincing. I wanna ask you somethin’.”_

_By the fire, Susie crowed and Julie tugged her bright hair. The two fell in a giggling, drunken heap. They partied often, but it didn’t take much. They hadn’t eaten or drank in days._

_“Yeah, a lotta convincing,” Joey huffed, eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll join you.”_

_“Take this first.”_

_He took the blade for himself. It fit his hand neatly._

_“Need to know I can count on you, brother,” Frank said. “If some dumb motherfuckers run up on this place and try to ruin our good time, can I count on you to protect us?”_

_Saying nothing, Joey put the knife in his pocket. He returned his gaze to the firepit. Julie was working Susie out of her top. The two were slicing each other’s clothes with some scissors. Julie missed Susie’s bra strap and cut her by accident. She lowered her lips to the girl’s pale collarbone and licked off the blood._

_Frank watched Joey keenly. “Are you gonna help me soothe their attitudes, or do I have to do all the work?”_

_He turned, removing his mask, and tossing it to the floor._

_“Say no more,” Joey said, shucking off his jacket._

_His leader stopped dead. Frank turned around. Joey had almost forgotten how gaunt his face was in firelight. A handsome face, even with the dark circles transforming his eyes into pits. The neck tattoo took on a demonic animus of its own._

_“Do you have my back, brother?”_

_Joey patted his pants pocket, making sure the knife was still in place._

_“Hell yeah,” he said._

* * *

Almost there.

Cheryl couldn’t believe it. Having watched Meg and Tapps only briefly, she tried to follow the same repair steps. After much trial and error, the gen was chugging animatedly.

“Yo! Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you?”

She stayed crouched, not turning around. So close. Nearly there.

“You don’t exactly look like you belong here, either,” she muttered.

“Oh, _frigid._ ” Joey pretended to shiver. “I like that. This is _our_ home, you stupid cunt.”

“Ours? You seem pretty alone to me.” She moved a lever, just slightly. The generator coughed. Too much. She moved it back, her palms slick with oil and sweat.

Sneakers pounded on the floorboards. Raspy, enraged breaths hissed like some kind of rabid animal. She had seconds left to finish and it wasn’t going to happen.

Screaming in frustration, Cheryl stood up.

Spidery limbs shot out of the generator, wrapping around it in a spiny embrace, thrusting her backward. From the rafters, she heard a giggle. She looked up.

Alessa stared down at them both, smiling.

Oblivious, Joey stopped his attack to ogle at the generator. Cheryl lowered her gaze, facing the immediate threat in the room.

“Cool trick,” he grunted. “Got a little bit of the devil in you, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

Joey shook his head.

“Come on. You got ‘traumatic backstory’ and ‘daddy issues’ written all over your face. You _sure_ you’re on the right side?”

He took a few steps toward her, unwilling to approach the possessed generator.

“What side?” she asked. “There are more of you?”

“Damn, you’re kinda slow, ain’t ya? Must be a dumb blonde thing.”

_I’m not even blonde, you jackass._

She shot back, "You sure do talk a lot. You sound scared. You know, if you're confused...hearing voices...I can help you."

Joey squinted at the name badge dangling from her vest. She had forgotten to take it off at the crisis center.

“Spare me the armchair psychiatry, _Heather_ ," he said with a sneer. "You’re not in the real world, anymore. Welcome to-”

“That’s _not_ my name,” she growled.

He shrugged, stepping closer.

“Whatever. You need to learn the rules."

" _Rules, rules, rules_ ," she sighed. Trying to back away as deceivingly slow as possible. "Everyone keeps going off about the damned rules. Like it's a fucking video game or something."

That only seemed to excite him more. She shut her mouth.

"I'll teach ya," he purred, gesturing with the knife. "The way I taught that redhead in the tight pants.”

He crept toward her. Alessa was gone. The spidery grip on the generator had vanished, too. Before she could question things, a new image caught her attention, burning through the walls of the resort, shining like the aftermath of gazing at the sun for too long.

The bright image took the form of a girl. A girl with braids, trying to wrap gauze around her arm, way down on the mountainside.

“Can’t have this thing going off. That'd spoil our fun!” Joey cried. Again, a little too enthused, giving her the impression he feared retaliation or rejection.

_Like he said, why don't I just pull up some armchairs and ask him about it?_

Then:

“Wait here, Heather-Feather.”

She couldn't believe her luck. He moved to kick the generator. In the few seconds his back was turned, she gave him the slip, ducking behind some crates and crawling through a hole in the wall. For all his talk, he wasn’t too bright. She heard him roaring after her.

"You bitch! Get back here! Get back..."

She slid and stumbled down the hill, unfollowed. Finding Meg exactly where she knew she would be, thanks to her new psychic vision. A latent gift from Alessa? She had never seen fit to help her so obviously before.

”Oh. It’s you. Thanks for your help,” Meg greeted, crinkling her nose.

Cheryl winced. “I’m so sorry. Please, at least let me help you.”

“How the hell did you know where I was?” she asked.

Meg had tape wrapped around a part of her torso, presumably where the hook had pierced her, and was trying to mend a slash wound to her arm. Cheryl tried not to stare. It made her sick.

“Lucky guess.”

Meg grunted doubtfully, but nodded when Cheryl reached for the dressing. She unwound the gauze and redid it, tight and neat.

“Hmph. Guess you’re good for something,” Meg admitted. Her eyes flicked to Cheryl’s.

Did she trust her? Or was she searching, sensing something within her, as Joey had?

“I’ve had practice,” she said vaguely.

_Why hide it? Why pretend any longer? Sooner or later, they’re going to find out what you are._

_Maybe it's time to start believing myself again?_

“Really?” Meg asked.

Cheryl looked away, distracted. The apparition had followed her from the resort. Alessa was peering at her from behind a boulder, dark hair whipping about her shoulders.

“Yes,” Cheryl answered gravely. She motioned for Meg to stay close.

“Follow me. We’re getting out of here.”

* * *

_Came back to my room to grab a smoke. Was about to head outside and check the grounds. Def. someone out there._

_Must have passed out. Head hurts. Too many party favors...whacked-out dreams. Nightmare on top of nightmare. I gotta stop watching so many horror movies. This one made_ Hellraiser 2 _look like the fucking_ Neverending Story _._

_There was a thing with multiple limbs, an insect or a spider. Taking control of my dream. It was everywhere, the sky, the ground, in the mountain, ME._

_It spoke so clearly, but I can't remember. It gave me instructions. Ordering me around._

_I don't answer to nobody, except Frank._ _He seems to think it's real, that thing we saw in the woods._

_Don't believe it 'til I see it (again)._

_Gotta go. Work to do, suckers to kill._

_-Joey_


	4. You're Not Here

_Where I'm going is everyone's story  
_ _We want new lives, we love to start over  
_ _It's not a question of who are we really  
_ _It's who we want to be_

 _And if you try to find me now  
_ _I'm in all the echoes that have faded out  
_ _So I'm moving on  
_ _Cause I just want to feel for once that I belong  
_ _And that's what's going on_

-’Escape Route’, Paramore

* * *

_Heather Mason, this is Wallace Hornwood._

_I cannot believe I’m making this call. When you wandered into my store a year ago, looking for a career, I was the only one that vouched for you. I distinctly remember telling my managers ‘there’s potential in this girl; we need to give her a chance’. It seemed you were trying to turn your life around. I even thought you were manager material, but I guess you proved me wrong. I don’t know what’s going on between you and my son, but threatening his life is no joke._

_We take any mistreatment and harassment of an employee very seriously at Eden Mart._

_Due to the weather, I’m informing you via this message that you have been officially let go. Don’t bother coming back to turn your things in. Your final paycheck will be in the mail. I want you to know, I’m being perfectly transparent when I say that I have a restraining order against you. You are forbidden to set foot in any of our stores again. Don’t even so much as glance at the parking lot._

_Oh, and destroy your nametag. It would be illegal to have identification that still lists you as an employee, and your shopper’s subscription has been permanently cancelled. That is the price you pay for your indiscretion._

_This will be our final goodbye, Heather._

(Click)

* * *

“What did you say your name was?”

"...I didn't."

"Oh."

Cheryl’s back was turned to Meg, so the girl couldn't see the conflicted furrow of her brow. Of its own accord, her hand strayed to her lanyard, tucking the plastic _Eden Mart_ tag into her shirt. A badge of shame, more than anything. She often wore it to _Polaris_ as a joke. It was sometimes easier to crack through tough shells with a bit of humor: s _ee guys, if you turn your life around, you too can argue about food stamps with customers at seven in the morning_. Far from laughing now, she cringed as ice melted against her fevered skin.

"Well?" Meg piped. "What's your name?"

Two years forcing the lie on others, on herself. Had it been her denial that caused this? Had she really thought she could ignore the great horror of her lifetime, except when it suited her? She had wielded her trauma like a club or a magic wand, when it was nothing but an anchor dragging her down.

Even then, while she struggled to navigate the deep snow, her footsteps felt lighter. Practiced. As if she'd walked a path similar to this, long ago.

"Ooookay. Never mind," Meg sighed.

She peered back over her shoulder. The redhead trudged along despite her grievous injury, her breath clouding around her lips. No sign of Alessa, but she could feel a familiar presence nesting in an empty corner of her mind.

They crouched by a generator, way out on the slope. The lodge was a glowing shoebox on the horizon. Their only company was a baleful crow, watching the tiny humans from a lift cable covered in icicles. She tried to mirror Meg’s technique, wondering how the hell she had managed to almost power the one from earlier. Until Joey had rudely stepped in. Or had it been Alessa’s fault?

And just what the hell was that creature that had erupted from the machine?

No, the time for made-up names, dreams, and grim fantasies was over. The fantasies were trying to kill her (again). If she expected truth from others, she had better damn well set the example.

“It’s Cheryl,” she said at last.

No great weight lifted, but that was all right. The heaviest burden one could bear had been exorcised in an unholy pit beneath a church. She had literally killed a god with nothing more than a katana. It had consumed Alessa’s childhood friend and left nothing but her robe behind and it had wanted to consume _her_ , too. It’s birth was the reason her father had been murdered.

The worst thing that could possibly happen to her already happened. What was she so fucking afraid of?

“My name is Cheryl,” she repeated to herself. She felt like laughing.

"Yeah, you said that already."

Meg, distracted by her task, missed the vindicated smile on Cheryl’s chapped lips.

They finished the generator just as their fingers and toes nearly lost all feeling. Maybe going totally numb wouldn’t be such a bad thing here. Another generator pinged to life in the distance. The two girls stood up in excitement.

“That was fast,” Cheryl remarked. “That makes three, right?”

Meg nodded. “Dwight must have been helping Tapps.”

They started heading back toward the lodge, keeping their eyes and ears peeled.

“Dwight?”

“The nerdy guy in the glasses.” Meg rubbed the back of her head, adjusting her cap. “I’m honestly shocked he hasn’t been killed yet. He’s a nervous wreck. Not like you.”

Ow. Harsh. Did this jock chick have it out for that Dwight guy, or what?

“Just how many of you are there?” Cheryl asked.

“Last I counted, fourteen.” Meg’s smile softened the lines of pain etched on her face. “Our numbers keep growing. At this rate we should apply for a business license or something.”

Cheryl frowned. “Uh-huh. I see. So who’s doing the recruiting?”

Meg scanned her over, once, perhaps finding the other girl’s steady nerves unusual. Cheryl could have said likewise, considering Meg had been dangling from a hook the last time she'd seen her.

“You haven’t seen it yet, have you?” Meg asked, with a paranoid look.

“It? You mean the spider?”

The other girl fell silent. The blizzard had all but ceased, the wind playfully tossing their hair, as if to say ‘it was all a joke, see? I’m not _really_ mad at you...’.

“You _have_ seen it,” Meg breathed. “That’s the thing that controls the game. We don’t know what to call it.”

“Another Nameless Evil Entity,” she sighed. “Great. Just great.”

Meg’s mouth dropped open. Before she could even begin to ask, a sleep-deprived, agitated voice startled them.

"Don't get too excited, hot pants."

A figure in black lumbered towards them. Meg leaned into a sprinting stance, a steel mask of determination on her face. Cheryl was starting to admire the athletic girl’s grit. She certainly envied her speed.

“S'up,” Joey growled, emerging into the moonlight. He tipped the knife to his head in greeting.

“Leave us alone!” Meg cried.

With a shrug, he charged them out of the blue, soiled blade no longer flashing. In her mind's eye, Cheryl saw and heard the mechanical droning of twin flying corpses, the scrape of bladed appendages against corroded walls. Ah, memories.

This guy was fast, but he wasn’t _Giant-Mutated-Pendulum-Demon_ fast.

“You’re not gettin’ outta here alive!” Joey cried.

"That's what they all say," Cheryl muttered.

Meg took off in an explosion of powder, her powerful legs pumping. Joey changed course, aiming at Cheryl, still stationary. Her cutting glare was its own sort of knife. He was nothing but a humanoid insect. An insect that refused to piss off. She was less afraid of him, and more of his stinger.

Spinning around, she made a straight shot for a wooden pallet resting between two walls. Grunting, she threw it down as she passed, backing away, hoping to give herself a few more seconds. Joey leaped and vaulted right over, and before she knew it she was fleeing towards the stone fence surrounding the resort. What was her brilliant plan again? Suddenly she didn’t feel so qualified to be there.

He backed her against the solid wall, his body quivering like a junkie with a murderous craving. Her fingers reached into her pocket, her expression perturbed but confident. Would he still be spouting cocky phrases with some max voltage straight to the eye socket?

“Got a gun in there, Heather-Feather?”

“That’s _not_ my name,” she growled. “Get it through your thick skull!”

Her fingers closed empty air. The taser she had been prepared to whip out was missing. Stolen. Her eyes widened, her stomach dropping into her boots.

Joey laughed hoarsely, gloved fingers tapping his bloody knife. “You’re a weird girl.”

“At least I’m not some fucking loser who gets off by stabbing people.”

The knife lowered to his side, slowly.

“Yeah, you're right. I think I’ll choke you to death. It'll like that better.”

"What will? Your boss?"

He fell into a turbulent silence, bloodshot eyes locked on her. It had been so long since she'd felt the invisible target settle, but she knew it when it was there.

“Cheryl! Use this!”

She turned in time to catch a large, industrial flashlight flying at her face. Meg lowered her arm from a safer distance. What the hell did she expect her to do with that? Bash him in the head?

“Cute,” Joey crooned. He tossed the knife deftly between each hand. She lifted the flashlight in self-defense.

He closed in with a disarming burst of speed. She shrieked and the bulb clicked on, burning a focused beam directly in his eyes.

“Ah! Fuck!” Joey shielded his face, stumbling to a dead-stop. “What the hell? Is there a laser in that thing?”

She clicked it off, bolting towards Meg, Joey cursing and slashing empty air behind her. They entered a stone maze, which would have been more at home at a boot camp or a carnival, much less a ski resort. The maze was like a meat locker, devoid of heat, trapping in cold. Their lips were already turning blue.

Everything was a whirlwind being sucked into a vacuum. She wondered how long she could keep this up before she cracked. The others seemed like they had a grasp on things, and that was the only tether keeping her from being completely consumed with the absurdity and unfairness of it all.

“Good. We lost the fucker,” Meg whispered, when they were stopped at an intersection. “You go that way. I’ll go see if I can find the others.”

Cheryl rubbed her arms, teeth chattering. “Is that such a great idea? I barely know what I'm doing.”

“We still have two more to go. It’ll be faster this way. You seem like you can handle yourself.”

For once, she wanted nothing more than _not_ to be alone, but she trusted Meg already. She found a generator between some trees and ducked out of sight. Focusing on the steps was enough of a distraction. She questioned how she had ever made it through Silent Hill on her own. Well, the guns had helped. Lots and lots of guns.

 _Ding!_ Her gen powered on nicely, the pistons firing. She stood there in admiration of her handiwork, nursing her smarting fingers. She’d kill for a pair of gloves.

“Got ya.”

Her head jerked away. Like a nightmare, he had crept up on her while she’d been dreaming.

“No magic tricks this time?” he asked.

Before she could reply, the fifth pop cracked across the resort. Joey visibly twitched, but didn’t so much as glance behind him, advancing toward her. His anger locked on one soft target.

The nearby exit gate went off with a wail. 

“I don’t think I need them,” Cheryl said, grinning.

When the doors didn’t open, her grin wavered. She was running out of snow to step on.

“I wouldn’t be smiling, if I were you. It _wants_ your blood."

"Fuck you," she hissed. "And your boss, whoever they are."

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just the guy handin' it over.”

The backs of her boots bumped into the gate. A lever and power box on her right answered her panicked question. Nowhere left to go.

Joey stepped up to her and caught her fist before she could hit him, bringing the knife up with his other hand. All that cruel metal sunk straight into her side. Her legs gave out, her fingers clawing at his arm to keep from falling. Her mouth yawned open, trying to form curses and threats, but no sound came out.

"Hmph," he grunted. "What a letdown. Thought you'd put up more of a fight."

With a wail, she collapsed against the gate.

“Hey asshole!”

Banging, as of a door being opened and shut rapidly. A new voice she hadn’t heard before. 

_Dwight._

“Fresh meat! Come and get it!”

“I’m gonna saw that nerd in half,” Joey sighed. He reached down and plucked the knife from her body like a fork stuck in a bloody potato.

“Wait right here. You and I are gonna have some fun.”

She lay there, her blood freezing in a puddle. Half-expecting Valtiel to scramble down the wall and grab her by the ankle. This time, it wouldn’t be another nurse he dragged into his den.

Someone _was_ pulling her by the ankle through the snow. But it wasn’t a demon.

“Pssst. Hey!” Meg hissed.

The white cross of a medkit eclipsed her hazy view. Tapps limped past them both and yanked the lever.

“Like waiting for fuckin’ paint to dry,” he growled.

Eventually, the red light lit up with a harsh buzzing that sounded to each of them like heavenly bells.

“You could’ve warned me,” Cheryl groaned, rolling onto her back. “About the switch.”

“Ah. Sorry about that,” Meg relented, unzipping her vest for her. She applied pressure and a gauze dressing to the stab wound. 

“This will hurt, sorry.”

Cheryl barely felt it. She knew it wasn’t a blessing but a bad sign. Consciousness ebbed in and out in black waves.

“Ugh...my head…”

“Stay with me,” Meg urged. She tried to pull her to her feet, Cheryl’s dead weight against her good shoulder. The redhead was sturdy and flexible as a young sapling, but much of her energy stores had bled out when she’d been hooked. A more conscious Cheryl might have questioned how she or Tapps were able to function at all.

Just as the gate began to slide with a grating screech, Dwight came rushing toward them, waving his arms.

“Run! Run!”

She stumbled forward and fell. Soft moans escaped her lips as her bandage slipped into the snow. Meg hoisted her up again and pinched her arm. Hard enough to leave a tear-shaped welt.

“Ow! Jesus!”

“You can do it!” she shouted in her ear. “Get up! Now!”

One brown boot plodded after the other. Once Cheryl gained her momentum, Meg released her, scrambling ahead to join the others by the fog. They were in dire shape, in no condition to carry her.

Instead Dwight and Tapps beckoned and waved. Behind them, the obscure backdrop rippled. A portal to anywhere but here.

Pulse beats filled her ears, but she could tell by their grave expressions that Joey was right on top of her.

“Come on! Come on!”

The ringing dropped. Joey’s footsteps thrashed behind her like a feral hellhound’s. She fell against the brick wall, just as Dwight and Tapps turned and disappeared. One more step, if she could just peel herself from that wall…

Meg ran into the mist, looking back over her shoulder in helpless horror.

A gloved hand caught her arm in a tight grip, which she was too weak to fight against.

“Stay,” a jubilant voice barked.

“Ahh,” she whimpered, knees buckling.

“Good girl.”

Something sharp jabbed her other side. Not as deep. Quick and vindictive.

Had he not touched her, she might well have passed out onto the ground.

The sharp bite of the blade was all it took for the cloud of protective brain chemicals to lift. Wide awake and screaming, she tore free of him, collapsing into the yawning void, where Joey’s animalistic, pained howls quickly faded to nothing at all.

* * *

 _Heather?_ _It’s Carli, in case you couldn’t tell._

 _God girl, you really need to get a cellphone. We missed you at dinner. I’m not mad or anything. My mom’s so lit she barely noticed it’s just me and my brother here. Look, just give me a call, okay? This blizzard has me worried (and tipsy). I need to know you’re not a frozen snow angel somewhere. I called_ Polaris _but Darnel said you already left._

_I have so much to tell you! Work was insane today. Hornwood was in rare form; I’m surprised he didn’t kill anyone. Even Junior was afraid—big surprise there. Listen, don’t let that cretin and his dad get you down. I can totally understand why you overreacted. I know you would never actually hurt the dude, even if that human arachnid deserves a good tasering._

_I’m totally not stalling or anything, hoping you’ll pick up._

_...I need to ask. You’d tell me if the nightmares started again, right? I know you hate bringing up your dad and whatever happened back then, but, well, I hope you know I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Wherever you are right now, I hope you’re in good company and at least getting drunk or stoned or some other legit reason to ignore your scared friend, is what I’m saying._

_If I don’t hear back, I’m coming over to check on you and Douglas. Stay safe! Bye._

(Click)

* * *

In the night-swallowed woods, Cheryl, Meg, Dwight, and Tapps followed soft, forlorn notes plucked slowly on an acoustic guitar. A mournful song that Cheryl didn’t recognize, but felt in the pit of her soul. Every so often, the notes would flutter, attempting flight, only to sink back down into darker tones. Whoever was working the song out had a Midas touch (or was it Muse’s?), even at practice.

When at last they stepped into the faint circle of firelight, Cheryl had never seen four people jump to their feet so fast. Their air of dejection could have given her toughest counseling group a run for their money. As to their surroundings, she’d seen homeless camps with better setups. The fire, which she could have laid down flat in and never touched the outer stones, though in need of fresh wood, was at least bright and welcoming.

They were greeted with a moment of tense, tired silence. All eyes settled on Cheryl, who averted her gaze.

“God-damn! That was quick.”

A man in sunglasses and a red baseball cap cried out in surprise, throwing down the deck of cards he’d been shuffling. His accent was some manner of Spanish-speaking one Cheryl couldn’t place.

Next to speak was a silver-haired woman in a leather jacket and matching black skirt. The maker of the song that had lured them home. She lowered her acoustic guitar slowly. For someone so naturally beautiful, Cheryl had never seen more troubled eyes. Suddenly the music made perfect sense.

“Don’t tell me you lost,” the woman groaned.

Meg flashed Cheryl a knowing smile, her hands on her skinny hips.

“We won,” she announced.

The man in sunglasses pulled his shades down, eyebrows raised dubiously. He stared at Cheryl, reading her like fresh dice thrown down on the gambling mat.

“No shit?” he muttered.

“Yeah, no shit.” Cheryl shrugged. She didn’t care for his attitude.

The small group pressed in excitedly, chattering over one another. All save one. A young man about Cheryl’s age lay fast asleep on a dusty, woven blanket.

As they circled her, Cheryl leaned toward Meg, whispering, “I thought there were fourteen of you?”

“The others are still in a trial,” she explained. “And we had two go missing a few days ago.”

“Trial? The thing we just went through?”

“Exactly.”

_Trial. Sacrifice. Bloodshed. Gods, demons, and killers, oh my._

Cheryl nodded emptily, somewhat understanding, though she wondered if it would be better if she hadn’t. She shoved her hands in her pockets, the white vest devoid of bloodied holes. When they'd first emerged on the other side of the fog, all four of them were unscathed. 

Mentally, well, that was a different story.

At least their reappearance had breathed some life back into the others. A young man in a white trench coat with an 80s hi-top fade asked the million-dollar question in a thick, Jamaican accent:

“Who’s the newcomer?”

Cheryl opened her mouth, but he turned to the sleeper and nudged him with his shoe. “Rise and shine, Quentin! We got company.”

The sleeper rolled over. His mop of hair obscured his face, but she could tell how drained he was by the downturn of his lips, the croak in his voice.

“Hey,” he greeted.

"Hey," Cheryl said, waving.

He rolled over and promptly went back to dreamland.

 _Strange guy_ , she thought.

From the edge of the clearing, Tapps growled, “Everyone quiet down. Remember what we agreed about too much noise?”

“Give it a rest, Detective,” a husky-voiced girl, who couldn’t have been a day out of high school, said gently. She was dressed like she’d walked straight out of the 70s, in blue navy pants and an acrylic blouse.

 _All different times_ , Cheryl mused. _All different places._

“Let us have a little excitement, will you?” the girl added, arms folded against her chest.

Tapps grunted and turned back to the woods. He rubbed his unmarked arm up and down, as if reassuring himself it was unharmed. Before Cheryl could introduce herself, she was interrupted yet again.

“I know who she is: another mouth to feed,” the man in sunglasses sighed. “Great.”

He took off his cap and walked away, wringing it in his hands before slapping it back on his thick, silver-streaked hair.

“What’s his problem?” she muttered.

“Ignore him,” the Jamaican guy suggested. “Our supplies are dwindlin’. Ace is just annoyed cuz he can’t get a drink and a cigar.”

Ace held up his middle finger silently, but Adam paid him no heed. Dwight cleared his throat.

“We uh, never got your name. Might be helpful later, y’know. We can’t just call you ‘newcomer’ once the next person shows up.”

He attempted to smile at his own joke. Meg rolled her eyes, although it wasn’t warranted. He had quite possibly saved all their lives with his little distraction. Something Cheryl wouldn't soon forget.

“Uh, hello?” Dwight chimed. “Your name?”

But Cheryl was walking toward the campfire, pulling the lanyard over her head. In a manner of a few hours, all that she worked for in the past two years had been swept out from under, the interdimensional rug pulled from her feet. It wasn’t necessary for her to interview each of these strangers to conclude that much. She gave the name tag one final, sorrowful glance, throwing all that remained of _Heather Mason: Cashier I_ onto the red-hot coals.

She turned toward each of their hopeful faces, awash in the warm glow of the fire.

“It’s Cheryl. Cheryl Mason.”

They started to ask questions, but she raised her voice, saying over them all,

“And I think _one_ of you should start from the beginning, and tell me what’s going on. If I know anything about evil entities kidnapping people—and I know more than you think—we’ve got a long road to climb out of hell. So we better _damn well_ understand one another.”

Ace made a show of pulling his cap down over his face, putting his hands flat on his head. Clearly he thought she was full of shit. The others nodded in agreement or looked at her curiously. 

“Damn,” Meg laughed. “Well said. I think Adam here is the most qualified for story-telling, being a teacher and all. Let’s have him sit you down and-”

Before she could finish her sentence, a ruckus of snapping twigs and voices arose in the forest. They all turned toward the ominous treeline. A ribbon of lightning licked the skies above, causing most of them to jump. The ensuing thunderclap was like dynamite exploding.

One by one, four more individuals crept out of the woods: an army veteran, an Asian girl in a neon uniform, a short-haired tomboy in a plaid shirt and ripped jeans, and a bulky man with a shaved head. His twinkling, deviant eyes revealed he was about ready to throttle someone. The rest could have just returned from a funeral.

Lightning blitzed the dark as the wind began to kick up, their fire guttering dangerously low. Trees danced and swayed, leaves and dirt leaping from the ground, as rust and paint had once peeled and drifted from the walls of her old hometown. Cheryl knew otherworldly vengeance when she saw it. But where was there to run to for shelter, way out in the sticks?

With a pained cringe, the short-haired girl announced in a Swedish accent what everyone already dreaded:

“We lost.”

Swirling clouds above their heads ripped open. It began to pour.


End file.
